Tunnel Vision Page 12

  Tim was only two years out of the seminary and still green under his collar. But Norm was not reticent about telling him, made easier by the fact that he was Tim’s uncle, with considerable clout with conservatives in the local Catholic community. At Boston College he had considered the seminary to become a Jesuit priest but went on for an M.B.A. Wise real estate investments made him a fortune, allowing him to generously support conservative Catholic organizations, schools, and businesses needing legal protection against liberal social movements and the ACLU. He was also a director of the ultraconservative Fraternity of Jesus, which was dedicated to preserving pre-Vatican Catholic orthodoxy and to promoting the inerrancy of the Bible and the Gospel of Jesus Christ as the only means to eternal life. This small but powerful brotherhood was not recognized by the Vatican. That was no problem for Norm and his colleagues because they didn’t recognize the current pope or the last several.

  Father Tim nodded in agreement. And Babcock unmuted the television.

  “But we can’t do this without your partnership,” Gladstone continued. “We can’t bring you the Word of God without your help. Our operating ability depends on partnering with you, our viewers. With your support, the GodLight Channel reaches into people’s homes via television, cable, satellite, and now the Internet and will be virtually worldwide.…”

  “First the snake oil, then the pitch.” While Gladstone explained how payments could be made through all the major credit cards and so on, Norm muted the video. “We’re fighting to save the Church herself from this lying son of a bitch. He’s mimicking the real Word of God only to lead the flock away from the true Jesus, the true Holy Spirit, and the true authority of the Church. He’s evil and he must be stopped. Period. And we’ve got the right man for the job—a master at stealth, a latter-day Saint Michael. And this dragon will be cast out—this silver-tongued serpent with his bloody 800 number.”

  “I cannot tell you any more at this time. But the day comes—the day of the Lord’s truth. And ye shall all behold with your own eyes the proof of His glory.” The camera closed in on Gladstone’s face, his eyes raised to heaven and his palms turned up.

  “He’s turning the Holy Word inside out,” Norm continued. “Jesus teaches that death be feared; they preach that death be embraced. Jesus says the Lord hates sins; they claim that sin’s not a problem—that anyone can go to heaven. Jesus says fear hell; and they preach there is no hell, only divine light at the end of the tunnel. Jesus says only those who embrace God’s Word will see heaven; and they preach that all are welcome—Christian, Muslim, Jew, or atheist. This is nothing less than the grand deception of Satan.”

  While Gladstone continued soliciting donations, Father Tim said, “But if you want to stop the snake, go for the head, no?”

  “No, you just get the mouth. It’s those behind the scenes, those fuzzy-headed scientists and their fancy machines and computer programs—Satan’s doormen. That’s where the danger lies. Stop them and their machinations, and this little man will have no shadow to cast.”

  “Thy will be done.”

  Then Norm pressed a few buttons on the laptop and a still photograph with a name under it appeared.

  “Who’s that?”

  “The next doorman.”

  27

  Zack took an MBTA train from Copley Square to Alewife station, where his mother picked him up. He hadn’t visited her since leaving the hospital. All their get-togethers had been in town at restaurants or walking the streets, at first with his cane, then without. They went to a few movies and spent an afternoon at the Museum of Fine Arts—as if making up for lost time. And he felt a bond begin to renew itself.

  About twenty minutes later, they arrived at the white colonial on Hutchinson Road in Carleton, the house where he and his brother were born and where he’d lived until he’d started college. “Feels strange being here.” He hadn’t slept over since last Christmas vacation.

  “It’s nice to have you back, even for a night.”

  For the last six years he had lived in dorms and apartments, so that entering his own room was like slipping into a time warp. Nothing had been changed—the same movie posters; same photos of him, high school friends, soccer teams; same collection of paperbacks, travel shot glasses, high school wrestling trophies. Also a photo of Amanda, his first girlfriend. They had met during sophomore year and dated for four years. But, sadly, last year that ended when she and her family moved to England. They had kept up telephone and e-mail contact, but eventually their remoteness could not keep things alive. They broke up, and he was left with another hole to live around. His life seemed pitted with them.

  Maggie had prepared Zack’s favorite dinner, chicken parmigiana with a mixed salad and blue cheese dressing, fresh baguette, and pecan pie with coffee ice cream. She, too, was making every effort to strengthen that bond. He’d once overheard her tell a friend how he never shared things with her; how other mothers were “good buds” with their twenty-something kids and did things together. She felt cheated—their conversations reduced to her asking questions and his responding in monosyllables. She was right, of course. And their estrangement was rooted in a child’s irrational blame for not preventing his father from leaving. Mothers were supposed to make things better. Of course, it wasn’t her fault, but his distance had become habitual. His postcoma life would be a turning point.

  To add to his guilt, she handed him a check for $500 to pay bills. He gave her a hug, thinking how she had no idea what a hole he had dug for himself. “You’ll be happy to know that I applied for a part-time job.”

  Maggie’s face lit up. “You did. That’s good. What is it?”

  “I don’t want to say too much until it happens. But it’s at a local lab.”

  “Good for you. Let me know if it comes through.”

  After dinner, they settled in the living room. He sipped some juice, she a glass of the Cabernet he had brought. As they chatted, his eyes moved to the fireplace mantel and the simple blue-and-white urn with his father’s ashes. Near it was a clutch of framed photographs—a family portrait in front of the house, shots of Jake and him, one of Zack and his father at Sagamore Beach. Zack was beaming over a huge striper, his father smiling proudly next to him. Behind them, the breakwater jetty that formed the western flank of the Cape Cod Canal. For two weeks every summer, they’d rented the same cottage on the dunes looking over the bay, the canal less than a mile down the beach to the east, the Manomet cliffs a mile to the left, the vast blue bowl of the Atlantic spread before them. “I miss those days.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  He could see that she wanted to avoid reminiscing. His eyes slid to the urn—what the Benedictines had given them. “What happened to him?”

  She looked nonplussed. “Who?”

  “Dad.”

  “You know what happened.”

  “I mean after Jake died. He changed.”

  “Why are you asking? That was a long time ago.”

  “Maybe because it’s Memorial Day weekend. Plus he was my father, and I’d like to know.”

  “What difference does it make?” She sipped her wine. “He changed. We all did.”

  “He became different, withdrawn. I used to think he would have preferred that I had died, not Jake.”

  “That’s ridiculous. He loved you both equally.… I think he felt guilty.”

  “Guilty for what?”

  She hesitated for a moment. “Frankly, he blamed himself that Jake was gay.”

  “What? That’s ridiculous.”

  “Of course, but he thought he should’ve been a stronger male model, doing more masculine things with him, with you both. Then he wouldn’t have been gay, and he wouldn’t have gone to that bar.”

  “Because he wasn’t a jock didn’t turn Jake gay, for God’s sake. It’s genetic.”

  “I know that, but I think that’s how he saw it. Also, the Church viewed homosexuality as a sin. It still does.”

  “The Church. The bloody friggin’ Ch
urch.”

  She waved her hand. “Please, don’t get started. We did our best. We went to family counselors and support groups…” She trailed off.

  “Instead he became born-again and fell off the earth.”

  “There’s no point in being bitter.”

  “Hard not to be.”

  “He had a terrible time with it,” she said. “The court dismissal only made it worse. Even medication didn’t help. But religion did. Like it or not, he found solace.”

  “Yeah, abandoning your wife and kid to become a monk. Nice religious values.”

  “I suppose it was better than a life of grief and violent fits.”

  “But it’s just the kind of hypocrisy that turns me against religious people. They fortify themselves with pious abstractions, but aren’t there for the important things.”

  “Let’s please change the subject.”

  But Zack disregarded her. “Did his parents bring him up religious?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about when you got married?”

  “Why are you so interested in his religious background?”

  “Because I am. Because I never really knew him well. Because I’m wondering what the hell made him give up family for a fucking monastery.”

  Because something happened in that lab booth the other night.

  He could feel her measure her language.

  “He was a very spiritual person. I wasn’t, so I guess I couldn’t relate. On Sundays he went to St. Agnes, and I went to the Unitarian church in the center. He didn’t like that because of the secularist-humanist mentality. They didn’t talk about God.”

  “You mean he was more interested in heaven than earth.”

  “Can we please change the subject?”

  They were quiet for a few moments as he stared at the photos of him and Jake.

  “They’re still breathing and living their lives,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “Those bastards. Volker’s a carpet salesman in Waltham. The other one moved to Connecticut. I can’t even drive that way without my stomach filling with acid.” She began to cry. Zack went over and put his arms around her. “I’m sorry,” she said, her mouth trembling. “It’s just so unfair. So unfair.”

  He kissed her on the forehead. “I know.” And he felt the heat of rage rise up in him as it always did when he thought about Jake’s killers. They had beaten him with a tire iron.

  “He’d done nothing to them.”

  While he held her, his eyes rested on the urn. When the monk delivered it, he said that Brother Nicholas had died in his sleep, clutching his crucifix. A few weeks later, insurance money began arriving in bank checks. “He took the coward’s way out.”

  His mother sat up. “Who?”

  “Dad. It’s like one of those tabloid headlines: MAN LOSES GAY SON TO KILLERS, LEAVES FAMILY, JOINS MONKERY, FINDS GOD. DIES.”

  * * *

  They watched the evening news until Zack got tired and announced he was going to bed. He gave her a hug and kiss good night, then took a shower and got into bed. Someplace he had read that the average adult took about eight minutes to fall asleep. He probably dozed off in less than two. He slept deeply and dreamlessly until sometime after midnight, when he woke up. For some reason, his room was totally dark—no light seeping through the window blinds, no glow of his clock radio. Not even a light strip under his door from the hall night-light his mother still kept. Stranger still, he could smell the heavy salt air of the ocean. He could even hear waves gently lapping the shore in the black.

  He tried to move, but his arms and legs wouldn’t respond. He strained his muscles to push off the blanket, but he couldn’t. What’s wrong? Then a thought shot up: He had had a stroke. Or an aneurysm. His brain was so screwed up that while he slept he’d suffered some kind of neurological collapse that had rendered him blind and paralyzed. He tried to call his mother, but only a faint cawing sound escaped him. What the hell is happening to me?

  He let a moment pass, then tried to scream but couldn’t get his lungs to respond. All that came out was a pathetic click. He tried again and this time couldn’t suck in air. Couldn’t fill his lungs.

  A thought sliced across his mind like a blade: I’m dead.

  No. If you’re dead, how can you even think that? Death was being completely nothinged. Worse than a coma, where voices filtered through. Being dead had none of sleep’s awareness of sleep. He wasn’t dead, because suddenly things changed.

  And it wasn’t a dream.

  Cold. Shivering. The core of his body had turned to ice. Fishy night air against his chest. Electrode suction cups. But this wasn’t a reality he recognized. A clammy alienness filled him.

  Suddenly the sucking silence was shattered by a banshee blast.

  Hands on him. Hands carrying him. Laying him down. In a hole. Then something landed on his face.

  Sand.

  28

  Zack woke up spitting sand.

  The room was dark but for the glow of the clock radio, which said 2:17. He was chilled but pushed off the blanket and sat up. He planted his feet on the rug and spit more sand. It peppered his skin and filled his scalp. He got up and flicked on the lamp, then pulled up the cover, expecting the sheet to be covered with beach sand. It wasn’t. And he had spit only air.

  But his head was swimming, and his heart was jogging. He flopped back down, feeling cold and clammy. After several minutes, his head stopped whirling and he got up, slipped on a sweatshirt, and stepped out of his room. The landing at the top of the stairs was still dark but for the night-light that had burned since he and his brother were kids. He gently opened the door to his mother’s room. She was sleeping soundly. He closed the door and walked downstairs, steadying himself on the banister. Inside he was trembling.

  He padded into the kitchen, flicked on a light, poured himself a glass of milk, and warmed it in the micro—something his father had taught him when he couldn’t sleep.

  His father.

  Since that day in the chamber when they deep-stimulated some lobe, he could not stop thinking about him, reliving sweet memories before everything turned horrible—days of playing ball, fishing in the canal, getting buried in the sand …

  Outside, the streetlamp turned into a blinking red beacon across the water. In the distance he heard the moan of a foghorn.

  He looked back at the kitchen, trying to get out of that dream. The foghorn faded, and he was leaning against the polished granite counter and trying to lose himself in the stainless-steel stove and fridge and other appliances. It worked. He glanced outside, and the red light was the old streetlamp again.

  He leaned against the sink and took a few long breaths until he felt his insides settle back into place. Then he gulped down a mouthful of milk. Instantly, he spit it out, gagging over the drain. It was thick with salt. He sniffed it. Like fish water. He dumped the rest into the sink and opened the fridge. He removed the carton of orange juice. It smelled normal. He poured some in a glass and made a test sip. Orange juice. He guzzled a glass to flush the taste of ocean.

  He headed back upstairs and dry-swallowed two tablets of Lunesta, hoping they’d knock him into a dreamless sleep. He closed the door and got into bed, lying in the dark, his body clenched against a sudden assault of visions.

  But there were none, and relief soon passed through him.

  He cleared his mind and tried to concentrate on the dark slurry seeping into his brain. He thought about Sarah Wyman and wondered if she was dating anyone.

  He snuggled into the goose-down pillow, the filling making a soft cradle for his head. He pulled the blanket under his chin, then gave a little kick into the void. He would sleep undisturbed, he told himself as the heaviness spread throughout his body and the warm black cocooned around him.

  The last thing he remembered before blacking out was a shovelful of sand landing on his face.

  29

  After closing the doors of his shop, Roman retired to the backroom office, where he
went online and Googled LeAnn Cola and Thomas Pomeroy.

  They had coauthored several articles on neurophysiology with long, complicated titles that meant little to him. The writing was highly technical, and he had to look up several phrases to get a general sense.

  From what he learned, their research was aimed at perfecting ways of detecting microchanges in the electrical activity of the brain by use of a helmetlike device for the skull. Their objective was to help scientists better understand the function of different brain areas to diagnose and monitor diseases like epilepsy and dementia, but the same techniques could be used for personal identification. Signatures. The article went on to suggest security applications.

  So what did that have to do with God or Satan?

  He didn’t have a clue. And it really didn’t matter since he was thirty-five grand richer and didn’t have to worry.

  And God’s in His heaven and all’s right with the world.

  30

  Zack’s brain was still tender from the nightmare when he awoke the next morning. It was seven thirty, and his mother had left to do some errands but had made him a breakfast of potato pancakes, turkey sausages, fruit compote, and a pot of French roast, which helped clear his head. He cleaned up and left her a note of thanks, thinking how she had gone through the fire and hadn’t run off to a nunnery. He took public transportation into town and spent the rest of the day at the Northeastern library working on his thesis.

  That night he received a call from Dr. Luria. She wanted to do another test on him next Tuesday evening, if he was free. He was. In advance of that, she asked him to e-mail sample photographs of his family members, friends, pets, his home, and favorite places. Her explanation was that they were going to use them to establish a baseline for brain scans. Zack didn’t know what that meant, but he complied.

  He also went online and Googled each of the key people in the lab.